Love

It goes without saying. Every last Thursday of the month, come rain or shine, we meet at the bus stop for a stroll along the little quay. Sometimes we will remember to bring a slice of bread to break up for the swans, who will scramble along hurriedly to be the one to get the most; and other times one or both of us forget, or have been too rushed, or distracted. The swans would look at us expectantly on those days...but that would quickly turn to resignation, those clever swans - which always left me feeling a little guilty.  

Susan and I have been doing this since our childhood. Best friends since tiny tots who ended up going our separate ways as we grew older. School and life began interfering. As it does. But the bond was strong; and we came to an unspoken understanding that we would treasure the friendship we had. Because true friendships were few and far between. So it came to be that our monthly walk was one we always prioritised. She could probably have done without it; but she knew how much I valued these walks, being the less social one of the two of us. 

Later on, when she moved a little further away, we still managed to meet without fail - she taking the train and the bus to get there. It was a time we both jealously guarded. She always wanted to explore the world out there, I always loved being a homebody. It held a special significance for me living in the same town I had grown up in, knowing the old lady who helped her son the grocer with customers, and the butcher who knew how you liked your meat cut without asking. It made me feel like I was a part of something greater, that I had some value even though it wasn’t anything special that I did besides exist. 

She was always keen on getting out there, embracing life and all it has to offer, and she would come to our meeting with exciting stories that left me marvelling at her bravery, thrilled that this exotic creature could be my friend. Next to her I felt dull and dowdy, but that was my own imagination – she was a friend as good as a sister to me. She understood me and allowed me my own peculiar habits, and I was grateful to her for this. She would always arrive in the latest fashions, her eyes sparkling and her hair shining, this friend of mine.  

It wasn’t long before the rumblings of war started. We were both of parents who had endured the First World War, we grew up on horrid tales of mud and rats and gore. To us, war held no fantasy. It was a gruelling and trying time by all accounts, with shortages of everything essential and an abundance of death. Every family had lost through that horrific period and the loss was never forgotten by my family or by hers. And when the rumblings began in our own time, we nervously tried to bolster one another's spirits by reminding ourselves in turn that surely the world couldn’t have forgotten already the lessons learnt by our parents’ generation. 

But as Hitler got mightier, so did our realisation that this was not a matter of possibility anymore, but one of probability. It was becoming more real, and as the posters started appearing demanding that the brave amongst us step forward, we knew it was inevitable. Susan was devasted at our last Thursday before War was officially declared. I had never seen her so inconsolable. You see, her Jack had foolishly enlisted. The tales that we had grown up listening to had not impacted on him and his ideology; like many young men Jack believed he was invincible. Or maybe he just didn’t understand his own mortality.  

By the time our next Thursday had come around, Susan had rallied and thrown herself wholeheartedly into doing what she could for the war effort. She explained to me as we walked our familiar pathway along the quay - too distracted by the recent happenings to even spare a thought for the poor swans - that though she couldn’t control what was happening, she could control the way she reacted to it. And by doing something useful, she felt she was helping Jack. Hopefully before long, this nightmare would belong firmly in the past. She was so wise, this friend of mine. 

The War lasted a lifetime; and the stories of our parents' generation became echoed in our own reality. There is a surrealism that exists when life gets so unbearable, and you become someone who simply functions on autopilot. Our lives were reduced to rubble, but our resilience shone through. Human nature is such that it chooses to continue; and Life has gifted us with a very special coping mechanism, called Hope. Susan and I continued meeting every last Thursday of the month, no more and no less. It was the one constant in the sea of shifting sands, the day that we both looked towards as a beacon to mark another month survived. Susan would come with news of Jack when she could, the worry etched onto her face, dulling the sparkle in her eyes and the shine of her hair.  

Finally the Thursday came where we could embrace each other, and sob all our despair and worry out. It was over, at long last. The day that we had given up hope of ever seeing had arrived, and this nightmare could be put behind us. She gripped me as hard as I gripped her, her fingers biting into my flesh as she cried tears of relief. Jack would be coming home. I was so happy for her. I was so happy for myself. I was just so happy for us all.  

Slowly we managed to rebuild our lives. Buildings rising where rubble had stood before; shelves at the grocer finally filling and looking like a shop again. There were a few things that had gone for good after the war – and life changed rapidly in the period afterwards. Our good friend Hope had got us to the other side, and Life was for the living.  

Within a few years, I had met someone that I had fallen in love with. I was content to be alone, to live my life with my usual routines and my monthly meeting with Susan, but life decided for me. Fate had brought Paul and I together; we met at our local library and became friends before we became more. I didn’t tell Susan about him at first, but knowing me as well as she did, it wasn’t long before she had managed to pry my secret out. By now Susan and Jack were married. I had been unable to go - because of how anxious I felt when I wasn’t in familiar surroundings - but she knew this and understood it. And had no expectations of me at all. She didn’t hold it against me and kept up her monthly visits for all the years. She was so excited for me. Her spirit was infectious, she told me I would adore being married. I told her she was jumping the gun, but she looked knowingly at me and smiled as if she was a cat that had got the cream. She begged to meet him, but I told her I wasn’t ready yet for that step. She didn’t push it, she knew she would meet him when the time was right. 

The month following my secret’s exposure was full of happiness. It almost appeared as though Susan was a fortune-teller, predicting that this would end in marriage to my soul-mate. I fell deeper and deeper in love with him, and he finally asked me to be his wife at the beginning of the week that I was due to meet Susan.  

It was the last Thursday of the month. I asked Paul if he would like to meet Susan, and he eagerly agreed. I had told him so much about her and he couldn’t wait to meet this wonderful friend of mine. It would be a surprise for her, but I knew she wouldn’t mind. And he had promised not to impose too long on our time together, he had things to get back to. 

I sat on the bench with Paul, waiting for her to arrive. It was a little chilly today, and I waited impatiently for her until I decided that sitting made me too cold. I hopped up and shifted from foot to foot, frowning at my watch. Public transport was unreliable at times, but she had always managed to get here. What could be holding her up? I glanced around, expecting to see her at any minute now rushing towards me hurriedly. I readjusted my scarf around my neck, the cold was really biting now. Paul eventually stood up too, apologetically. He had to get on with his day, he had waited an hour and a half with me by now, but couldn’t spare any more time. I saw him off and decided I would wait another half hour, and if she wasn’t here by then I’d have to make my way home. 

I couldn’t bear to leave without my walk, so I ambled along the quay alone, throwing crumbs to the swans as they swam along beside me. I was concerned for my friend – it wasn’t like her to not appear. I actually couldn’t recall a time in my memory that she hadn’t come along for our monthly walk, even through the terrible years of the war when you would expect transport to be non-existent. 

By the time I had arrived home, I had decided on a course of action. I would simply write a letter to her. I had her address because I sent her a letter at least once a week. She was notoriously bad at writing back, but she read my every letter and we would chatter about the contents when I saw her in person. I had never minded that she didn’t write back, I knew life was busy and it was just a way for me to stay connected with her in the weeks that I didn’t see her. And she had told me before that she really appreciated them, even when she didn’t write back, so I kept going.  

Two weeks had passed since I had written to her, and there was no reply. At worst - I was hoping for an explanation of some sort scribbled on a bit of paper; at best I had hoped that she would arrive out of the blue with a million valid reasons bubbling from within, barely contained in her excitement to tell me what was new. I felt so lonely without her, and was wondering what I had done wrong. The loss cut deep, and the silence from her even deeper.  

Three weeks after our missed Thursday, Paul offered to take me to her. I dithered, worried that she would be angry if I arrived out of the blue, but equally anxious that it wasn’t a part of our normal routine which was what I thrived on. He assured me that he was passing nearby in any case for work, and that he would be right beside me and if she wasn’t thrilled to see me (which he was sure she would be), we would leave immediately. He reminded me of her own explanation in the early years of the war – you can’t control the actions of others but you can control your own reactions. This was simply a reaction to her having missed our Thursday. It was this reminder that made me agree to it. Before I could change my mind, I found myself in Pauls little car chugging up the road towards Susan’s home. I had been there once before, a long time ago, when she had fetched me, but that had been the first and last time. Nothing was familiar, the landscape had changed so much with the war that even had it been familiar then, it wouldn’t have been now. I dozed off for a while, and woke when we came to a stop.  

Paul indicated a house on the left, as he double checked the address I had written down. It didn’t look like the same house I had been to previously, but he was adamant that it was the one. We hopped out of the car and headed towards the door. I was unsure, it had been a long time ago I had been here, but I was sure it wasn’t this one. The neighbourhood looked vaguely familiar though. I knew Susan hadn’t mentioned having to rebuild her home, something was feeling odd.  

The door was opened to Pauls knock by a young child, who looked expectantly at us.  

‘I am looking for Susan, is she in?’ he asked. 

The child blinked. A shadow appeared behind her, which morphed into perhaps the mother of the child. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked. 

‘Yes please, I am looking for Susan. Is she in?’ 

The mother paused, frowning slightly. ‘Susan? I think you have the wrong address. I am sorry! I don’t actually know any Susan’s in this road.’ 

It was our turn to pause. Paul turned the paper with the address on it towards her, and asked if he was in the right place. 

She nodded. ‘That is this address, but this house has been rebuilt. There is no Susan here. Perhaps you’d like to pop next door to May, she has lived here for a long time, if you think Susan lived here before the war? Perhaps she has a forwarding address. Though, to be honest, now that you mention the name, I have been getting post addressed to a Susan.’ She indicated to us to wait, and she turned to the table in the hall and opened a drawer. She took out a stack of envelopes, neatly bound together with twine, and handed them to us. ‘Take these with you, you may find Susan and then will be able to hand these to her. I could never throw them away, they seemed too personal and like they had a purpose. I am so glad I’ve kept them. The latest one arrived only three weeks ago. As I said, I am sorry I can’t give you more information, but try May next door.’ She extended her hand to the child and retreated, closing the door. 

Paul looked at me. ‘What now?’ He asked. ‘Are those your letters?’ 

I looked at them and nodded slowly. They were, without a doubt, my letters to Susan. A whole pile of them. The rest of the day has blurred. I know Paul took me next door and we spoke to May. She remembered Susan, with the sparkling eyes and passion for life. She remembered Jack, and that when he left Susan threw herself into the war effort. She also remembered that Susan had been killed very shortly after the war began, in a train that had crashed after the rail had been bombed, returning from a trip she took once a month. I remember yelling that it was impossible, we lived through the war together and I had seen her just three weeks ago. Paul managed to convince me to go home eventually, and called the doctor when we got back. I climbed into bed with the letters I had written to her clutched in my hand, and with a little help from the doctor I slept for nearly a week.  

I saw Susan once more, in the week that I was asleep. She came to me, looking as fresh and sparkling as she did before the war ruined our lives. She wiped my tears away and promised me that even though she was gone, she would always be by my side. The bond we had was unbreakable. She had waited for Paul to come into my life, and now that he was here, she could leave knowing that I would be ok. She promised great things ahead, and told me I needed to carry on.  

Paul and I got married on a Thursday, the last Thursday of April. Our babies were both born on the last Thursday of the month, two years apart. All the good and memorable things of my life happened on the last Thursday of the month, and I knew it was Susan’s way of telling me that she was there. 

On this particular last Thursday, the last of the month and the last of my life, I couldn’t leave my bed. I had lived a full and happy life, despite all the sadness my generation had endured. It was nearly time to go. 

‘Granny,’ asked Timmy, the youngest grandchild of the five beautiful grandchildren I shared with Paul, ‘do you believe in ghosts?’ 

‘No Timmy,’ I said, smiling over at Susan waiting patiently for me in the arm chair in the corner of the room. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts. I believe in the power of love, and my love for you means even when you can’t see me, I will be there.’ 

She waited for me, Susan did. She waited for me, and when it was time to go she stepped forward with me into all the familiar faces of my past. The power of love knows no boundaries.